by C. L. Werner
When the fighting was over, Salendor hastened to the front of the column. Liandra knew how keenly his warrior’s blood had wanted to be there, fighting beside his troops, but the situation had called for a leader, not a swordsman. She watched as the elf lord had his soldiers drag the wounded dwarfs to one side. They’d be tended to and marched back to Athel Maraya as labour for the city’s defences, helping to raise the very walls that would defy their kinsmen.
The dead were dredged up from the trench and laid in a heap. The wounded dwarfs swore and cursed at the sight, but Salendor was not to be dissuaded. Carefully, he inspected each body before allowing it to be thrown back into the hole.
One of the dwarfs, unable to control himself any more, rushed past his guards and tried to throw himself at Salendor. Liandra spurred her horse forwards. The animal crashed into the dwarf, pitching him to the ground.
The dwarf’s armour was scorched and blackened from the fire, and as he struck the ground, the straps binding his masked helm broke free. Liandra had just drawn her sword, intending to cut down the enemy if he remained defiant. When she looked upon his unmasked face, however, she almost let her sword fall from her hand. The wounded dwarfs gave voice to a piteous moan while many of the elves, those who had been in the colonies long enough to recall the days of peace, gasped in horror.
The face of the dwarf was a ghastly patchwork of scars – old scars that told a woeful story. They were the marks left by a king’s imperious humour and the ungentle shears of his court. From cheek to chin, from nose to lip, the dwarf’s flesh was a grey confusion of cuts and gashes. Here and there a pathetic patch of white hair stood out among the wreckage, but for the most part what was present bore scant resemblance to flesh, much less a face.
‘Is this not a beard worthy of a war?’ the dwarf snarled at her in strained yet precise Eltharin.
The words were like a slap across the cheek to every elf who heard them. How many of them had joined in their king’s mockery when he derisively called this conflict ‘the War of the Beards’? Now, as they stared at Caledor’s handiwork, they felt shame at the jest.
Liandra forced herself to meet the dwarf’s gaze. ‘You… were the ambassador?’
‘I have no more words to waste on asur,’ Forek growled. ‘Strike and be damned!’
Liandra shook her head, slowly returning her sword to its sheath. She had come to despise and hate the dwarfs over the years, nearly as much as she did the druchii. Yet she knew enough about their ways to understand the enormity of the insult King Caledor had inflicted upon their ambassadors. Seeing it for herself only made the insult that much more atrocious.
‘I cannot undo what has been done to you,’ she said, ‘but I will not visit more hurt upon you.’
Fire blazed in Forek’s eyes as he heard Liandra’s words. ‘You already have,’ he snarled. ‘Your pity is a greater insult than the knives of your king!’
‘You have heard my lady’s decision,’ Lord Salendor declared, walking his horse towards the beardless dwarf. ‘Wag your tongue however you like – none here will raise their hand against you. Enough shame has been done to you.’
The dwarf rose to his feet. For a moment, it looked like he would try to lunge at Salendor, but as he stood he began to sway. Blood streamed from a wound in his side. The enraged vitality that had spurred his first effort was gone. ‘Your pity is as unwelcome as hers,’ Forek spat.
Salendor’s gaze hardened. ‘It is the last I shall bestow upon a dwarf,’ he said. The elf pointed to the heap of bodies stacked at the edge of the trench. ‘Tell me, is Arhain-tosaith among them?’
A grisly chuckle spilled from Forek. ‘Dead? No, the Lord of the Tunnels isn’t dead. He lives, Salendor of Athel Maraya. He lives and one day he will bring your city crumbling down about your ears.’
‘Tend the dawi’s wound and let him go,’ Salendor told his captains. He leaned forwards in his saddle, fixing Forek with his eyes.
‘If you see Arhain-tosaith,’ Salendor said, ‘warn him that death waits for him in Athel Maraya. That is not a threat. It is not a warning.’
Liandra felt her blood go cold when she heard Salendor tell Forek just what his words were.
‘It is a prophecy.’
Chapter Five
Fires of Hate and Prophecy
250th year of the reign of Caledor II
High King Gotrek Starbreaker sat upon his great Throne of Power. The king’s beard was still festooned with black beads of mourning even now, two and a half decades after his son was slain by King Caledor II. There were some who whispered that the king’s mind was lost to melancholy, that he would never stir himself from his chambers and lead the dawi into battle as he had during the great wars against the greenskins. Some championed more energetic kings like Varnuf of Karak Eight Peaks or Brynnoth of Barak Varr to be appointed High King of the Karaz Ankor.
Such malcontents, however, were careful to keep such whispers far from the halls of Karaz-a-Karak. Only a few minutes in Gotrek’s presence was enough to dissuade anyone from the idea that the brooding king was growing weak. Instead, the impression was that of a slumbering volcano, of a tremendous violence waiting to be unleashed.
It was a supreme effort of will on his part to restrain that violence. Every drop of blood, every strand of hair, every thread of sinew in his body wanted nothing but to throw the whole of his kingdom against the elgi. It would be so easy for Gotrek to abandon himself to a campaign of vindictive carnage. That he had the resolve to deny himself, to subdue his own impulses, was testament to his tremendous willpower.
Only when the time was right, when the purpose was clear, could he call the whole of the Karaz Ankor to war. A purpose that served the whole of the kingdom, not the grudges laid out in the Dammaz Kron. Not the wounded soul of a grieving father.
Gotrek laid his hand on the sword resting across his lap. He could feel the subtle energies coursing through the blade, strange and somehow hostile. A fitting reaction from elven magic to the touch of a dwarfish king.
The High King studied the dwarfs gathered before his throne. Morek Furrowbrow had presented the elf sword to him, but he wasn’t deceived. He knew the gift was from his nephew Morgrim. No, he corrected himself, from his heir, Morgrim, now that Snorri was gone.
Morgrim was there beside Morek, arrayed in full armour as though Gotrek needed to be reminded of what his nephew wanted. He was a hound straining at the leash, desperate to be set loose. He yearned to return to battle. The question that lingered in Gotrek’s mind was what he’d do with such an opportunity.
‘Your wound still vexes you?’ Gotrek asked.
‘I am fully recovered, my liege,’ Morgrim replied. Gotrek knew it was a lie. He’d seen the stiffness in the thane when he’d bowed before the throne.
Gotrek stroked the captured blade, feeling its cold metal against his skin. ‘The symbolism of your gift isn’t lost on me.’ He raised his hand, stifling Morgrim’s protest. ‘Do not argue that it is Runelord Morek’s present. He may have reforged it, but it was you who took it from the elgi.’ The king leaned forwards, forcing himself to face the third dwarf kneeling before the throne.
The metal mask and golden beard of Forek’s helm was a reminder to Gotrek that sometimes a king could ask too much of his subjects, that there were some sacrifices that simply couldn’t be asked of anyone. When he spoke to Forek, Gotrek’s voice was slow and measured, carefully strained of any hint of guilt that would be unbecoming of a king.
‘You bring news from Brok Stonefist?’ Gotrek asked. It was no secret that Forek had been campaigning with the energetic Ungdrin Ankor Rik. The Lord of the Tunnels had been engaged in almost constant battle with the elgi, from small skirmishes to assaults against Tor Lithanel and Sith Rionnasc. Brok’s slaying of the elf general Myrion had done much to embolden the dwarfs, but Gotrek wondered if it had really been worth it. Myrion had been replaced by Salendor, an elgi who
knew both the land and the dawi, qualities his predecessor had lacked. Salendor had proven to be ten times the foe Myrion had been, exacting a terrible cost from the outlying mines and settlements with his lightning raids. This was an elf lord striving not for glory but victory, and he was cautious enough to be satisfied with small conquests that cost his people little in the way of lives.
‘Tromm, my liege,’ Forek addressed the king. The eyes that looked out from behind his mask were as sharp as daggers and Gotrek felt relieved that such a magnitude of hate was reserved for the elgi. ‘Brok has conceived a plan that will end the menace of Salendor once and for all.’
Gotrek’s expression hardened. Brok had become obsessed with killing Salendor ever since the elf lord’s victory over him at the Battle of Blind River. Many times over the years the two had brought their armies into conflict. The bitterness and rivalry of their generals seemed to flow down into their troops. More vicious fighting in the war had yet to be witnessed. Still, despite the ferocity, despite the times when the two generals had actually met in combat, both of them yet lived. Some doom joined the two and seemed to be preserving them until the moment of its fulfilment.
‘Brok has promised the death of Salendor many times,’ Gotrek observed. ‘I have yet to be told that the elgi’s head hangs in the halls of Karak Azul.’
Morgrim rose to his feet. ‘This time he intends to assault Athel Maraya itself,’ he said. ‘Forek has explained the plan to me. It is a sound one.’
‘Athel Maraya has been attacked before… and by the same general,’ Gotrek cautioned. ‘The losses to the dawi were heavy and the elgi city still stands.’
‘Brok didn’t have the troops to penetrate the defences before,’ Morgrim stated. ‘Now he has King Varnuf and the army of Karak Eight Peaks supporting him. Enough hammers to tear down Salendor’s walls.’ An ambitious gleam came into his eye as he met Gotrek’s gaze. ‘If he had the might of Karaz-a-Karak behind him, he would be certain to accomplish his purpose.’
‘And who would lead our people?’ Gotrek wondered.
Morgrim stiffened. ‘I thought that I would command any contingent you were to send.’
The High King pulled at his beard, feeling the beads slip between his fingers. ‘No,’ he declared. Before Morgrim could protest, he motioned the thane to be still. ‘You will not command merely a contingent. Brok is obsessed with the grudges he has laid against Salendor. Varnuf is ambitious and power-hungry – he cares only about seeing my crown on his head. Neither of them will bring our people the victory they need. You will be in overall command of the combined army. If Brok and Varnuf cannot agree to this, then you will march back here with your contingent.’
Morgrim’s face brightened. ‘Then I have your leave…’
Gotrek stood from his throne.
‘The time for mourning is done,’ he said. ‘Now is the time for blood. Now is the time for reckoning.’ He looked at Ifulvin, the sword lying at his feet after it had fallen from his lap. ‘Now is the time for vengeance,’ he declared as he stooped and retrieved the sword. He tossed the weapon to Morgrim.
‘It is time you returned that blade to the elgi… one throat at a time.’
Athel Maraya stood in the midst of the Great Forest, what the elves had named the Loren Lacoi. Once it had been more beautiful than anything the asur had dared to build in Elthin Arvan. Its towers and minarets rose among the trees like colossal flowers, their graceful arches and broad balconies accentuating rather than diminishing their arboreal surroundings. Ranks of slender ash trees lined the main thoroughfare and the streets were laid with blocks of agate as smooth and polished as river stones. Beds of flowers were everywhere, sporting an array of colours beyond the limitations of nature, enhanced by careful hybridisation and the even less mundane enhancements of magic.
Ruby and sapphire and emerald shone from the window frames and doorways of each house, nestled among intricate carvings and frescoes. Tile murals adorned every courtyard and intersection, each vibrant scene depicting some tranquil moment from asur legend and lore. The lamps, wondrous cages of crystal and silver, glittered like a million diamonds when night fell upon the city, the illuminating enchantments bound within those cages making Athel Maraya shine more wondrously than the stars in the sky.
Liandra turned away from the marble balustrade, watching as a liveried servant stepped out onto the balcony. Revenial had been Lord Salendor’s own steward before he was sent to attend her. The pale wine standing on the silver tray he carried was a further gift from the elf lord, drawn from his own cellars. She recognised the dusky colour to the bottle and knew it to be from one of the early vintages.
Revenial stopped a short distance from his mistress and proffered her the crystal goblet resting beside the bottle.
‘Thank you,’ Liandra said after taking a brief sip. Wine, like most beautiful things, had to be taken slowly to truly be savoured. All too soon the beauty could be lost.
‘Something disturbs you this evening?’ Revenial asked. The steward had always been forthright with Salendor, a habit he’d carried over when he entered Liandra’s service.
Liandra took no insult from the servant’s familiarity. ‘I was thinking about how beautiful Athel Maraya was. Look at it now, marred by the necessities of war. Barracks and fortifications break the symmetry. Flower gardens uprooted to plant crops, trees cut down to form the frameworks for ballistae and chariots, jewels plucked from the houses to buy weapons and armour. And that grotesque stone wall that coils around the city like some titanic serpent. It is a hideous, brutish thing, as hard and ugly as the enemy it was raised to oppose.’
‘Beauty is always the first victim of war,’ Revenial said. ‘It was much the same when Malekith’s traitors raged across Tiranoc. People forget beauty when the enemy is near.’ He looked away from his mistress, gazing out towards the walls Liandra had called grotesque. ‘We learned when fighting Malekith that if you try to save everything then you end up losing it all.’
Liandra turned and the softness drained from her eyes as she looked out at the walls and the army encamped beyond them. For three months the enemy had been laying siege to Athel Maraya. A great host of dwarfs had chopped and burned their way through the forest to menace Salendor’s city. The dawi had hurled boulders into its buildings with their catapults, sent cauldrons of boiling pitch raining down on the streets, loosed spears from their ballistae at the high towers.
The elves had returned their attentions in kind. Archers sent volley upon volley flying out from behind the walls to break any dwarf effort to bring ladders and towers towards the city. Mages unleashed arcane malevolence upon the field, withering warriors in their heavy armour with bolts of wizardly lightning or cooking them where they stood with blasts of sorcerous flame. In the sky above, great eagles and griffons prowled the battlefield, spying out the movement and disposition of the enemy.
‘He is down there,’ Liandra said, feeling a wave of cold hate course through her body. ‘The eagle riders saw his standard. Our enemy is no less than Elfdoom himself, the same animal who killed Prince Imladrik.’ She shook her fist at the dwarf warriors. ‘If I had Vranesh right now, I could fly down there and burn those lice-ridden savages.’
‘You have done what you could, my lady,’ Revenial assured her. ‘You convinced Lord Salendor to send an eagle rider to Tor Alessi and request the aid of Lord Teranion and his dragons.’
‘My mistake may have been to allow Lord Salendor to compose the message,’ Liandra said. ‘I fear he did not impress upon Tor Alessi the gravity of the situation here. He is overconfident, he believes that Athel Maraya can fend off this siege.’
Revenial nodded. ‘He clings to the prophecy. He believes only Arhain-tosaith can break Athel Maraya. Without the Lord of the Tunnels to lead them, he believes the dwarfs can never defile his city.’
Raising her staff, Liandra sent a bolt of aethyric energy smashing into a boulder flying un
comfortably near to her tower. The magical assault reduced the missile into a shower of pebbles, the tiny stones clattering ineffectually against the rooftops below. ‘Prophecy has a way of cheating those who trust in it most,’ she warned Revenial. Salendor might be secure in his belief that only Brok Stonefist could despoil his city, but Liandra was confident that Morgrim was equally capable of the feat.
What she didn’t understand was why the thane hadn’t moved with all of his forces. Thus far, what Morgrim had done amounted to a series of probes, thrusts to test the defences. The real attack was yet to come.
Beyond the walls of Athel Maraya, Morgrim listened to the reports of his thanes. The barrage from the siege weapons was proving ineffectual. He didn’t need the thanes to tell him that. Catapults, bolt throwers, they’d been brought against the city before. And, just as before, they hadn’t been enough to overcome Lord Salendor and his city. No, it would need a different track to force a way into the city.
‘Bring what ammunition you need from the quarry,’ Morgrim told the artillerists. During the first siege against Athel Maraya, the dwarfs had excavated a wide expanse of the Loren Lacoi to provide the stone for their catapults. That open wound in the forest was still a rich source of supply for the dwarf war machines. ‘Detach the labour you need from the clan dwarf regiments but you are to take no levies from the hammerers and Ironbreakers or from the crossbows.’ Morgrim dismissed the artillerists from his tent with a wave of his hand. When they were gone, he turned to Morek Furrowbrow.
‘They could lob the Everpeak itself at that city and I think we’d be no closer to conquering it,’ Morgrim grumbled.
